


When Hell Freezes Over (the ninth circle)

by EristheVengeful



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First Fanfiction, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, No Beta, Other, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23229451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EristheVengeful/pseuds/EristheVengeful
Summary: Desperate and grieving after Dumbledore's death, and, most of all, Hogwarts' ransack, Harry is given a second chance by a suspiciously sympathetic ex-Headmaster, and Phineas Nigellus Black gains a son he never knew he was missing.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 15
Kudos: 307





	1. Fifth circle-WRATH

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> So, this is my first fanfic, but I have been an avid reader for years now. I figured the quarantine would be the perfect time to post that thing (I have had it on my desktop for a year and a half now...) online.  
> Please, don't be overly harsh, I'm not a native engish speaker!  
> That said, enjoy!
> 
> Oh and by the way: I don’t own anything, especially not the HP universe, and I certainly don’t claim rights to it, it belongs to JKR and whoever she sold the rights to!

Harry was sitting in Dumbledore's office, staring forlornly at the rotating and beeping silver artifacts. He sighed. Dumbledore would not find use of them anymore, he thought, all broken and mangled at the feet of the astronomy tower. He had thought he had destroyed all the gadgets in his fifth year. Perhaps they had been replaced then. Another sigh came past bitten lips, chapped and dry and bloody. His whole body was hurting, but that pain was nothing compared to that which resonated in his very soul. Oh, he felt no regret, no sadness for Dumbledore, the lying old codger had gotten what was coming to him after all. No, he grieved for Hogwarts, for his home, trampled by the feet of murderers, broken on the inside, changed forever. Nevermore would he trust the ethereal castle as an impregnable bastion- not that he should have in the first place, with lethal adventures to go on each year. A howl of pain, of primal grief, of fear and anger and fury and wrath resounded in the cold evening air. It was his own, he belatedly realized. The portraits of Headmasters long since passed away stared at him with something akin to pity. Only one didn't, a slight, sad smile present on his usually frigid face. It was Phineas Nigellus Black, the best known of the Slytherin Headmasters. He understood, no questions asked, what it felt like to have lost everything in the span of a few hours. The silence was broken by Black's voice -it was suspiciously hoarse- the man appeared agitated, anxious even.  
"-Come closer, boy, and I'll show you something. I have an idea to help you.  
-Help me… what could help me after this?" replied the raven-haired man.  
"-There's no trap, I assure you. Do you want to hear about my plan, or would you rather rejoin your friends who are no doubt looking for you?"  
At the boy's head shake, the older man continued explaining. He told him of the loss of his little brother to a flash epidemic of Dragon Pox, of why he would help Harry.  
"-You remind me of him, you know, boy. He held himself differently, of course - you really have an awful posture here. But he looked very much like you, with hair black as night and eyes as green as the death curse. In fact, if not for your curly hair, you cold pass as his twin."  
And on he went, explaining his plan. Harry was understandably skeptic in the beginning. Going back in time to fake being the son of an ex-Headmaster he did not really know might not be the best idea after all. But soon enough, he was sold on it. He had nothing to lose. Phineas, as the man had ordered him to call him, had told him that Riddle would be going into his final year at Hogwarts. Harry, or Dante, as Phineas had apparently renamed him ("You need something worthy of a Black. No son of mine is ever going to be called Harry, understood, Dante?) was a bit nervous about going into his Seventh Year with such a peculiar classmate, but he eventually relented, and Black-Phineas he reminded himself, this was going to get confusing, he was a Black too now- had convinced him to enroll at Hogwarts. Dante-Harry smiled as he turned the object attached around his neck the appropriate amount of times. Phineas had told him not to worry about turning it a specific amount of time- it would do it itself. He frankly did not want to know how that was supposed to work. The time-turner he held flash a bright white, light blinding him, as he and all his worldly belongings, which he had summoned, disappeared. He had taken Dumbledore's wand and his strange ring as a last revenge. A scream tore his mouth. Something was branding him, white-hot pain not quite rendering him unconscious. For a moment, the world wet dark and it felt like he was torn apart and then sewed back together again, before all finally stilled and color returned. He took his first few breaths of the air of August 1943. He had done it. He had escaped Fate in time. 

Willing himself to stay still, he slowly turned around and faced the man standing behind him, in front of the Black tapestry. Phineas Nigellus was unmoving, shocked maybe. Wordlessly, and with a small, contrite smile, Har-Dante, gave him the letter Phineas told him to write. He did not know exactly the reaction the other man would have, and he swiftly turned back on his heel to hide behind a wall, just in case Phineas ended up being curse-happy with him. Dante let out a trembling breath. He did not have a choice. If the Black Headmaster refused to protect him after reading the letter, he did not have a thing in this life, in a new-old, he supposed, world, where he had no real name except for the one Black had preemptively given him. A soft snort was heard, Phineas reacting to the letter perhaps. Dante-Harry slowly inched forward, cautious, to find the older wizard looking at him with amusement and slight concern.

“Come here, kid, I don’t bite. Now, you had an awful life according to this letter, and I’m inclined to believe it. It tells me things no others should know, family secrets. Mmmm… You were supposed to be part of the Black Family in the future you came from, right? Your godfather?  
You don’t look like a Black… The easiest option would be a bit of human to human transfiguration, but it would be painful, and I would much rather you had the blood of the Black coursing through your veins, if you’re going to integrate our family. You’ll have to be my son, though. I don’t have a wife, but I could always claim my wife is dead and was from a lesser pureblood family… I’m far from the typical Black anyway. Lucky I’m the Head of the family or we would have been unable to pull this off.“ “Mister Black, Sir, I’m sorry to be a burden… I have not have a choice in a long time, you see, so when your portrait offered me a way out I took it… I’m a coward, am I not?”  
“Listen kid”, he sighed bemusedly, “if I took you in, don’t think you’re a burden, I know I need an heir anyway, and I’m not going to marry anytime soon, so it works out for the best. Besides, wanting a way out of a fight that’s not even yours isn’t cowardice, it is common sense.”

And so they went, and after a rather painful blood adoption, Dante was a Black, although he, to the puzzlement of his new “father”, retained his distinctive green eyes. They had to go to Gringotts to change the older man’s will, and the newly dubbed Dante Polaris Black (no child of his was going to be a Harry, what a disgustingly common name!) had an inheritance check done. Turns out he was heir to the Peverells, although his connection to the Potters had effectively disappeared. No one knew how in the world he could be the Peverell heir, since the family had been gone for centuries, but his father had been overjoyed. It was a wonderful surprise, one that would give him even more standing in pureblood customs.  
His heir would make waves… and so would his son. When he had told Dante that very thing, the young man had felt tears welling up in his eyes. A man he barely knew was more accepting of him than a good many people in his past, his old mentor Dumbledore included. He smiled. He had family now, even if that family was only one slightly embittered dark wizard, he wasn’t going to complain, it was more than he had ever had before.

Dante whooped in joy. He was going to Hogwarts! An undamaged, still beautiful, Hogwarts. He may have had a lot of problems at Hogwarts, but it was still home. Phineas, as retired Headmaster, had the right to come and go in the castle as he pleased, and he would use it to live near his newfound son, to give the two more bonding time. The man may have been a bit gruff and cold, but he was slowly becoming his father in all the ways that mattered. He even got a scolding when he tried to ride a broom indoors! It was a nice feeling, though, being exclusively cared for, not like “one more child”, at the Weasleys, but like “my child”, like Phineas tended to treat him. 

He would be going into his seventh year, and he would be able to see the infamous Tom Riddle for himself. He had to admit that he was a shoe-in for Slytherin, embracing the sneakier, more cunning side of himself he had so fervently rejected in the future. But the proud look in his father’s eyes each time he behaved like a proper Black made him want to learn more about that Slytherin part of him. And so he learned, and learned. Pureblood customs, dark magic, light magic, gray magic, rituals, legends, history. He learned it all, and he listened to the passionate speeches of his father about all kinds of subjects. The man, as a teacher, insisted he be taught the Seventh year courses ahead, he wanted Dante to excel in everything. 

Finally, after a few weeks, back to school approached. It was the 31st of August, and tomorrow he was going to Hogwarts. He was positively buzzing with excitement! His father, bemused by his ecstatic mood, was shaking his head every few seconds, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Dante really was hilariously chipper, skipping everywhere he went and singing an old melody he had heard once in the future. He was going to Hogwarts! It was the only thought going through his head. He could not concentrate on his lessons, and acted as hyper as Kreacher that one time he drank coffee. 


	2. Sixth Circle- HERESY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's another... I'm not great with regular updates, I'm sorry!

The Sorting Hat chortled as it riffled through his head, like one would, perhaps, read a book. It didn’t speak much, but its mirthful guffaws could be heard into the Great Hall, and finally, after making him relive his most recent, most painful memories, it stopped, and without speaking a word to him, it sent him to Slytherin. Harry thought he might have heard a muttered “good luck kid” from the hat, but then again, he didn’t trust his senses after such a thorough reliving of the dread and fear he had left behind. 

Harry, unsteady on his feet but still very much composed, save for the slight trembling of his hands, stalked to his new House Table, like his etiquette teachers had taught him to over the summer. An obnoxious character, as blond as his future grandson, lost no time in sitting in front of him in the relatively secluded spot he had chosen, next to the new first years that looked thoroughly cowed by his presence and did not speak a word all throughout his Sorting and the following meal. The silence was most welcome in Dante’s opinion, but it was soon broken by the posse that swiftly surrounded him, hounding him with questions he had no intention to answer. The loudest and most irritating of the few seventh years was, of course, the blond Abraxas, apparently keen on questioning his Black heritage. Dante would have been very happy to ignore them all and introduce himself in a more private – and quiet – setting, but when the wavy-haired one, which he immediately recognized as Tom Riddle, joined them, he had to react. Taking his eyes off the roast he had been carefully studying, he lifted his head and met each pair of curious eyes head-on, a cold and disdainful look to him. The effect was instantaneous. The chatting students around him quieted and focused on the strange new pupil with Avada Kedavra eyes and swirling magic so dark and intense that even Tom, future Dark Lord, couldn’t contain a shiver – of fear or pleasure he did not know.

Dante then spoke, his voice raspy and slightly lisping, like his instructors had told him to.  
“-Why, hello. Why, may I ask, are you hounding me in such a public location as the great hall? Did it perhaps not occur to you that I may have wanted the privacy of the common room to introduce myself? Well, no matter now, pleasure to make your distinguished acquaintance, I suppose.” 

His tone was sarcastic and aloof, and his amusement shone through his verdant eyes when the Malfoy heir visibly floundered, red rising to his cheeks with an undignified squawk. Riddle threw his head back and laughed, mean and cruel and warm and dark. It made Dante’s insides curl and purr, they really were as alike as Tom himself had said they were back in his second year… Tom abruptly stopped laughing in favor of mocking Abraxas for his mistake, before introducing himself to Dante with a suave smile and sleazy charm oozing off of him. Raising one unimpressed eyebrow, the raven-haired boy took the offered hand, and with a slight, almost imperceptible smirk, introduced himself to the man who would kill millions in but a few decades. The past was his escape. If he somehow saved people while at it, good. But he would not throw away his life for the sake of others anymore. That was the first thing his new father had taught him. So he took the hand and with a razor-sharp grin angled the handshake just so the light would reflect off of his rings. A gasp could be heard in front of him. The Malfoy boy really had no composure. Riddle looked at him curiously, searchingly, before snatching his hand away as Dante used a nifty charm to make it burn in his own. It was a demonstration of power. He had the power of two houses backing him, he knew all about the future, his magic was more powerful and darker than ever, he would not be another slave to Tom Riddle, Head Boy extraordinaire, if the badge on his puffed out chest could be trusted. 

He had to give it to Riddle, he gave no indication that he had been in pain save for a wince so small he wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t looking for it. As it was, the brown-haired boy refused to surrender and offered him a tour. Thinking he might as well humor him for a bit, Dante agreed, and another conversation was launched on that line. Evidently, Tom was trying very hard to draw him in, to intrigue him so that he might use him. Too bad this wasn’t going to work, Dante snorted inwardly, a gesture that had been nagged out of him by his new father. He was not some toy, and he was an Heir and a Lord and he was not going to fold to Tom’s clever manipulations. He would be calling the shots, and perhaps he could even form a group of his own, if only to infuriate Tom. His equal. The Dark Lord. Voldemort. It was hard trying to reconcile suave and charming Tom with the snake-faced madman that haunted his every nightmare.

Once the meal was finished, the prefects led the first years to their common rooms. Dante was lead there by the Junior Death Eaters (or was it Knight of Walpurgis?) and had to roll his eyes when they all turned to him upon entering the Gothic, dimly-lit room. Were they expecting a gasp, a horrified face, hero-worship of the gigantic portrait of their Founder that sat proudly in the middle of the room, above the roaring fireplace near which many students were huddled to escape the damp atmosphere. Here, Dante paused. Whose bright idea was it to place a Common Room underneath a Lake? It was bound to be damp and cold and dark at all times, and he would rather not grow mushrooms in his hair, thank you very much. It was true that the Wizarding folk never had much common sense, but if they really were expecting awe, they had better get their eyes checked. There was nothing incredible in that room, and he had already been there before. He knew that the only comfortable seat was nearest to the fire, and since the other boys seemed to want to question him very much, he made his way to the group of lower years students. A simple shock-wave of his magic, filled with a malicious intent he did not feel, was enough to send them stampeding towards their dorms, squeaking all the while. He chose a dark green seat nearest to the fire and waited for the others to make their way to him, gazing into the flames with a slightly disturbing fascination.

He tore his gaze from the fire when someone poked him. The Malfoy Heir was pointing insistently to his seat, then to Tom. Oh, it was Tom’s seat then. Well, too bad, first come first served, and he had already decided to be as pointlessly petty as possible to Tom to make up for the murder of his birth parents. He looked at the fuming Riddle with a wide smile, and ignored his plight, making another, smaller seat similar to his appear next to him, for Tom. Let the bastard’s ego deflate a bit, he wasn’t the only powerhouse here, and Dante had some nifty tricks up his sleeve to bother Tom endlessly. 

The boy in question was currently gazing at him inscrutably, the orange light of the fire reflected in his dark eyes, his feature chiseled in the shadowy room. He looked dangerous that way, and Dante quickly realized that he had to step up his game if he wanted to make it out of this conversation without being ostracized amongst his own house on the principle that Tom Riddle, star pupil and Rising Dark Lord, didn’t approve of him. He smiled, a soft, deceiving expression, and began talking, his voice a whisper barely heard over the merry crackling of the fire. The others quieted and listened intently. 

“- You are probably wondering where I might come from, and, if I know anything about you British Purebloods, you have probably tried to recall as much as you could from your family trees haven’t you? Well, let’s put an end to all of that awfully funny speculation… Honestly, time-travel? Being from another world? Where did you ever come up with these scenarii?”  
Truth was, Dante felt quite uncomfortable with how close to his true origins some of them had come to while guessing. But he could and would put an end to that in an instant. 

Tom replied as charmingly as ever, his voice just the right note to be simultaneously warm and commanding.  
“-Well, you have to admit that apart from witty quips you didn’t exactly give us much to expand on, did you? Tell us more.”

Dante sprawled further in his armchair, graceful as a cat, feet elegantly swung over one of the armrests, propped up on one elbow, his deadly gaze locked in a match with Tom’s. He let his lips stretch in a slight smirk even as he recounted the story his father and himself had agreed upon. He was the son of Phineas Nigellus Black and a Russian witch of a minor pureblood family, the witch had died and he had come to live with his father. They discovered upon entering Gringotts that his mother had actually been the last descendant of Antioch Peverell, thus the reason why he was the Peverell Lord. Upon hearing this, Tom’s magic flew out of his body, his Dark Aura almost visible to the naked eyes, bringing each and every one of his followers to their knees as the weight of his magic steadily increased on his shoulders. Only Dante remained unbothered, his magic being more than equal to Tom’s in terms of power and Darkness both. Instead, he grinned savagely watching the Heirs of the most prominent families in Britain bowing before a Half-Blood, fearful and awed of his power. Slowly, meeting Tom’s eyes once again, his Avada eyes glowing with contained power, he released the tight leash he kept on his own magic and it filtered out into the room. Most of Tom’s minions were either unconscious or on the brink of unconsciousness. Only Tom and he remained, their magics mingling and playing together like two lazy predators. Dante got up from his beloved chair, and slowly went over to where Tom was standing. They were only a few inches apart, their magic singing a long-forgotten melody around them, gazing into each other’s eyes with an indecipherable emotion, when suddenly, the door opened noisily.


	3. Fourth Circle ~ Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein lies the secret to the artifacts and Harry is both lowered and elevated in magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so forgive me for being an idiot and kinda forgetting all about this work but well here is the new chapter, kind of short but hopefully interesting!   
> Do I need to do another disclaimer?  
> When in doubt... so here it is: I don't own a thing concerning HP and the HP Universe, all the rights go to the author and whoever she sold the rights to!

It was Slughorn. Insufferable as he was, it seemed that he had a knack for breaking up tense situations. His greased up hair and triple chins were, surprisingly, a welcome sight to both of the rivals. They had been steadily closing the gap between them, and there was no telling what would have happened had the fat professor not intervened.

Both blinked, almost simultaneously, coming back to themselves in the span of an instant, their warring, dancing magic receding back into their body. Dante regained his slightly sloping countenance, catlike and lazy as ever, while Tom straightened out and raised his chin once again, haughty and deceiving. 

Both took a few steps back, while Tom’s minions and the other weaklings regained consciousness, sending the boys fearful and awed looks. Later, out of reach from prying ears and eyes, there would be talk amongst the Slytherins of how much the two looked like Gods, magic crackling between them and highlighting their every feature, grace in their postures and glowing eyes only added to the impression that the two were if not Ancient Gods, at least two Godlings ascending to power.   
Most felt lucky to be allowed to witness such a rare event, though it was only hearsay, and rumors do have a tendency to get out of hand. 

Zabini, a seventh year that was well-known for her deadly and undetectable poisons, feeling the crackling energy beneath her mocha skin, closing her eyes, had decided that she would follow both of them everywhere they went. She would obey them, be their shadow if needed. She would be their first follower. She had been considering joining Tom well before the newest Black, the other powerhouse, was Sorted into Slytherin, but she had sensed, between the tension and the mutual disdain, something else, something much deeper, an underlying song from their magic, harmonious and enchanting. 

Dante was sprawled in his chair once again, bored to tears with the Transfiguration class he was attending. While he had been powerful before traveling through the very fabric of time, his power had truly become ineffable since he had been adopted. He twirled his wand in his hand absently.   
It wasn’t his phoenix feather wand, which surprisingly did not fit him quite well enough to use anymore, but the wand he had taken from Dumbledore as both a last goodbye and a sort of revenge for everything he had been put through in his short life. 

He twisted the ring on his right middle finger. It was the ring he had taken from the old man too. It had been steadily heating up against his skin for the past few days, but the heat truly had become unbearable in the last hour. His wand was buzzing with magic like never before, and he knew his Invisibility Cloak would be shimmering too. It had been a trend that only increased, and though at first he was ready to pass it off as a rational consequence to the time-travel he had operated, he was beginning to worry that it was something else. Still, though he was beginning to be slightly frightened of the possible meanings of this unusual level of activity, he retained his facade, a lascivious smirk pasted to his lips, posture as graceful and uncaring as ever. He knew his eyes were glowing lightly, as they had been for a few days now. 

His father was buried in research, trying to find an explanation for what the artifacts he had pilfered were, and why their level of activity was increasing to concerning extremes. So far, the only theory he had come up with was unlikely and quite humorous. Who would think the Deathly Hallows to be in a teenager’s possession? No, Dante was adamant that this answer was not the right one, Phineas had to be mistaken.

Lost in his musings, he hadn’t quite noticed when his magic escaped bodily restraints and danced in the Transfiguration classroom, sparks all around him, the same deathly green as his eyes, which were glowing, his pupils slightly dilated. He had begun levitating in his seat, a few centimeters above it, his hair was dancing in an invisible breeze. All in all, he looked rather terrifying, and it seemed the teacher was very much wary of him, since he was trying to herd all of his classmates out of the classroom, cowering before him, hands lightly shaking. Tom’s eyes were glued to him, hungry both for knowledge of what was happening to him and for his power, the magic that was sifting through the room like a heady aroma, both sea salt and deep forest. 

His skin was prickling, just above his heart and on his left forearm. Something was wrong, his skin was crawling with discomfort. What was happening? He was starting to panic. A scream broke through his addled mind. He looked up. His father, his new father was here, tear tracks on his face visible for all to see, his Pureblood mask long since forgotten. He tried to get to his son, the ambient magic slowing his every step, like he was running through jelly. Phineas kept on trying, he was getting closer to his beloved son. The magic was building up. It was crackling everywhere in the room. A meter left. Thirty centimeters left. He tried to touch his son. The dancing magic came to an abrupt halt. For a second, he looked at his son, and his son returned his panicked gaze, before an explosion could be heard. Distantly, Phineas realized that someone was screaming. It was him. He was flung from his son into a wall. He looked to the center of the room to see that Dante was now on his knees, green static flowing through him, concentrating on his left forearm and his chest. He was moaning in pain, tugging at invisible restraints. The temperature in the room had lowered by a few degrees at that point. It suddenly lowered much further. Phineas could see his and his son’s breath. Ice was starting to form on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, everywhere. 

With a last scream from his son, the build-up of foreign magic suddenly vanished into thin air, almost as if it had never been here in the first place. Wearily, Phineas got to his feet and went over to his son. He was met with verdant eyes brimming with tears of pain still and the young man murmured, voice raspy and soft:  
“- Father… My arm… My chest… They feel strange...” His eyes blinked swiftly, the boy fighting to stay awake after the significant magical shock he had just experienced. His hands were trembling, as were Phineas’s while he tried his best to undo the buttons of his son’s shirt in a panic, finally giving up any sense of propriety left and ripping apart the silky material. His son’s chest was revealed to the light. A gasp left him. Aghast. Here, on his own son’s body, was a mark. It would have been a tattoo, had it not also been ridged in the skin, deep and scarred and dark green, with the occasional verdant spark running through it in a split second before going out. He made a small sound of alarm, speechless. Upon further inspection, the same mark was on his darling new son’s forearm. The mark… it looked like what he had seen in an ancient tome when he had been searching for the artifacts his son had brought with him to the past. 

IT was a triangle, in which was a circle, and both were run through by a line. He let out a shaky breath. Something was up. It was a dream, no, a nightmare. That mark, the mere presence of this brand on his dear son’s body was unbelievable. 

Dante’s laugh was shaky, watery, as was his father’s. The Black patriarch had shown him that symbol while he was researching, but the theory had been put aside by both as too ridiculous to be true. Who would have thought that the Deathly Hallows weren’t a mere child’s tale? He had been branded by the Hallows, like cattle. 

A well of unbridled fury ran through him, heady and soothing in its own brutal way. He thought he was finally free of the prying, pitiless hands of the Norns, but here was the universe playing yet another cosmic joke on little poor him. The Transfiguration lesson felt almost surreal, like another lifetime to him, his mind was so much clearer, so much sharper than ever before, almost as if all the cobwebs had been cleared away by some unknown force. He looked at his father, crying and laughing in relief, and felt warmth invade his soul and his mind. This man, this amazing man, had risked his life, running to him in the middle of a magical breakdown caused by an unknown force that had branded him like he was a mere animal and they had only known each other for a few months. Despite his overwhelming fear, despite the crackling of magic through his newly obtained mark, he felt lucky, then and there, to be able to call such a wonderful man his father. He felt home, truly, in a way he had never known was even possible before.


	4. Second Circle: Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry flees and reflects on his life, and Tom comes to get him out of his mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuuhhhhhh....don't @ me, college has been kicking my ass again, but I guess here's a new chapter, borne from microeconomics procrastination? Yeah anyway enjoy, and sorry for the long-ass reflective passage, I had read Dostoevsky just before writing it and can't help but steal other people's writing styles lmao

Perched upon a cornerstone, high up the outer wall of the castle, Dante was staring into the void. 

This… symbol, this unwanted, unneeded mark of belonging, this slave mark, had been forced onto him again, like the lightning scar first was. Why must he be naught but a toy to play with at the gods’ convenience, and why, most of all, could he never access his very own Elysium, if he was to be the gods champion, or their servant? He only wished for normalcy, so desperately that it seemed to flee him every time he got remotely close to it, like a mischievous ghost haunting the deepest recesses of his mind, and never quite getting to surface as he wished it would. Even now, in this new time, he was forced to act, forced to deal with something he could not fathom, for all his imagination, something so much more powerful than he that he had no hope of winningagainst, no hope of ever being free of it against its wishes. 

What can a mere mortal do to fight Death? He could create Horcruxes, he suppose, for that was how the Lord Voldemort of his time fled Death. And yet, what good would Horcruxes be against servitude, against slavery? Master of Death indeed, he knew an ownership mark when he saw one, and he felt like little more than a prized pet, or maybe a fascinating spinning toy, round and round, into insanity. Frankly he had half a mind to go insane, but maybe thinking about it as a serious path he could take proved he was not quite there yet… He wasn’t too far off, though, of that there was no doubt. One would only need to assess his seating position, on the very edge of the void beneath, in the uppermost corner of the twisting, rumbling castle. It seemed almost alight, alive with fire and rain and storm, even as his magic, still unsettled and reluctant, churned and set fire to the stone beneath, impossibly. It was easily snuffed out but the raging storm his magic seemed to have conjured, though. 

In his rage, he had forgotten how he got up here, lost in the multitude of towers and turns and roofs the castle sported, but he supposed it might have something to do with why his broom was lying next to him, discarded on top of a turret, greedily soaking in the water that seemed to fall like daggers from the sky. And yet, he thought bitterly, as much as it may fight, this enemy is one I can do naught but beg for an easy release from. He smiled. It was a bitter, ironic thing, and had his father been there to witness it, he would have tutted disapprovingly at a conduct so unlike a Black Heir’s should be. But his father was long gone, researching rather desperately the meaning behind his newest mark. 

There were screams on the grounds, far, far beneath his perch, and he edged a bit closer to the edge of the stone to have a better view. There was Tom, screaming. Has he seen Harry, or was he blowing up at someone like he was so prone to doing? No, there was no one else there. Tentatively, Harry extended an arm above his head in a cheeky wave, and Tom’s scream got audibly louder, though still mostly unintelligible. Had he used a Sonorus? Dante supposed so, but in that moment it didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter that Tom had chosen to go after him in the rain and the storm instead of trying to gain information from the professors. Maybe he knew he would get no answers, or maybe he thought of Harry’s well being. Dante doubted it though, for while his sentimental side had been itching to reach out to Tom in friendship, heart aching for the orphaned boy, his Black side, the one his Father has so avidly groomed and cultivated, was screaming at him to assert dominance over this very real threat in the social hierarchy. 

Right now, tough, as Dante waved to Tom, all thoughts of politics had long since gone from his head, and in a fluid motion he was on his broom and in the air, plunging straight own, towards Tom’s agitated screaming. He smiled. Whatever happened, he could always trust Tom to be his aggravating self, and right now, he was itching for nothing more than a good round of banter and intimidation to calm his nerves and distract himself from his impending doom. He stopped, stock-still, right in front of Tom, when he noticed the other’s distraught look. Tom, who had a perfect mask, also had a frustrated snarl, and seemed out of breath. 

Harry was somewhat stunned, for he had never seen Tom be anything other than perfect, or as close to perfection as a mortal could stand to be, and seeing him dirty and muddied and drenched, red and panting from the screaming he did to call Harry down, was nothing short of befuddling. 

Tom seemed to come back to himself, then, and visibly straightened his back, banishing the mud with an absent wave of his hand. He peered at Harry with inquisitive eyes, as if to tear his secrets from him. Dante smiled back. He wasn’t a weak little boy, he was a Black and he knew more about pain than Tom could ever forget. Well, that wasn’t quite true, but it did help him push back any slight discomfort or intimidated feeling he had with Tom scrutinizing him so. 

So when Tom offered Dante his hand, the green-eyed wizard took it and hopped gracefully off his rain-soaked broom. With the broom in hand, he began to drag Tom to the castle. Any conversation they had could wait until they dried up and he made sure his mark hadn’t evolved. He felt it still, somewhat, a slight pain reminding him of its existence when he moved too sharply. 

Tom walked in silence beside him, his earlier countenance erased, the very picture of a model student. Yet, Tom’s magic was spiking slightly as well, and sought Harry’s out, trying to wrap around it. Dante let it, curious to see what its intentions were. It wrapped around his own in a warm embrace, as if trying to comfort him. He could not help but smile. Tom must be quite unsettled by this turn of events then. So was he, but he did not want the other boy to have any comparative advantage on him in what he was sure would be a joust, both in magic and in words. 

So he followed, and when they did not take the turn needed to access the Slytherin Common Room, he followed Tom closer, until they arrived on the second floor. So Tom was leading him to the Chamber, then? How… adorable. He knew the layout of the Chamber just as Tom did, and would not lose in a fight there. And yet, Tom’s magic did not seem aggressive in the least, in fact it almost seemed possessive, protective. Dante sighed. Whatever was bothering Tom, he wanted no part in it. He already had more than enough issues on his own, thank you very much. And yet, he followed further and further, when Tom opened the Chamber he walked down the stairs, and in the Chamber he followed Tom to what no doubt was a recent addition, a velvet green couch that seemed soft enough to sink into and never come outof, like a chrysalis. 

Maybe that was where Tom unwound from the long and dreary days he no doubt had, and let go of his mask of perfection. It seemed mostly gone, for now, for Dante could see the frustrated set of the jaw, lightly clenched, and the tilted head that meant he was trying to figure out something. Then Tom’s voice broke the pungent silence between them. It was ripe with curiosity, but Tom did not seem threatening. 

“-Now, Dante, you seem to know how to throw a tantrum quite well? What happened, may I ask? Did your Father not comply to your every wish, Black Heir, or did you find a pimple on that gorgeous face of yours?”  
Dante was more than offended, and while he knew that Tom was far from serious, judging by the mischievous tilt of his lips, he could not abstain from responding in kind.

“- How nice of the star pupil to pay attention to my moods! I did think he had much better things to do with his time, though, especially when he spends so much time with our dearest Potions Professors behind locked doors. Has boot-licking been boring you, lately, Tom Riddle?”

Tom laughed. He laughed and laughed, until tears were falling down from the corner of his eyes. Harry’s joke was not funny, or so it felt, but Tom kept laughing hysterically. When the fit calmed, Tom looked Harry in the eyes and tugged him closer, entangling his magic to his, and forcibly stroking it, to try and calm the last of the agitation. Harry seemed to melt into the green couch, and, exhausted as he was, fell asleep quite easily, leaving a content Tom to try and sift through his pockets to ascertain what had caused Dante’s breakdown.


End file.
